


fray into the future

by werepope (quiteparadise)



Series: Less than 12 days of Xmas [5]
Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Kurogane is gorgeous and people notice, M/M, Modern Setting, World Hopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 20:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5512784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiteparadise/pseuds/werepope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Honoring brand new traditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fray into the future

**Author's Note:**

> so this is the sound of you  
> here and now whether or not  
> anyone hears it this is  
> where we have come with our age  
> our knowledge such as it is  
> and our hopes such as they are  
> invisible before us  
> untouched and still possible
> 
> W.S. Merwin, "To the New Year"

Mokona's magic unspools around them and they are dropped on the fringe of a throng of people who seem in no particular rush to get anywhere. The sheer size of the crowd is overwhelming after the last world; that near-empty vastness had been unnerving too, but they adjust quickly. They have had plenty of practice.

They are crowded in nearly shoulder to shoulder on all sides here, and above the crowd rise blocky towers of stone and brick and glass, lit up against the darkness in a dazzling wash of colored light. This immediate crush and press is disconcerting, but there is jubilance in the faces of these people, obvious even through the obscuration of thick knit caps and the loose winding of scarves, of the spangles and blinking lights they have draped themselves in. If there is a threat here, no one in their small party has yet to sense it, and they have learned too to trust their instincts.

A young woman in a glittered plastic hat all but bowls into them as she moves, twisting, through the crowd. There is a scent of sweet alcohol on her breath, a hint of resin-heavy smoke in the folds and drapes of her winter garb. She runs into Kurogane, who is too tightly penned in to avoid her and who must decide it's not worth the effort because he takes it instead of even trying to move out of her way. She bounces harmlessly against his chest, jostling her vividly red curls and upsetting the cheap gold sparkle of her hat.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," she says, outright failing at sincerity, her dark grin too wide.

Kurogane only frowns at her.

Syaoran is their most charming and valiant delegate, their best-suffering if not longest-, and he does his duty swiftly in the face of Kurogane's scowl, before she can be scared off too loudly.

"No harm done," he assures her, hands up and smile on. "Please forgive us for being in your way."

The woman pats Kurogane in a friendly sort of way and presses back against the crowd to look him over from head to toe – a long trek made longer for dawdling at the spread of his shoulders, his bare forearms, the natural cant of his hips.

She makes a sweeping motion that is meant to encompass the whole of him and says: "I totally go for the nerd thing, if you're looking for someone to kiss."

It has not escaped Fai's notice that they are so easily overlooked here, despite the strangeness of their clothes, despite Kurogane's height, despite Mokona perched in the cradle of Fai's hood, rolling as she looks eagerly around. But they are not the oddest members of the mass, for all that they are interlopers from other worlds:

There are two grown men dressed in diapers, one chiseled and dark, the other round and pale. A woman behind them seems only garbed in a white fur coat and a liberal application of body paint. There is a whole cluster of people wearing precisely styled wigs, sequin-heavy dresses, and heels that make them as tall as Kurogane.

Fai hoards _nerd_ away for the future and insinuates himself against Kurogane's side. "Thank you very much for the offer," he says.

The woman turns her appraisal on him. It does not linger. "Worth a shot," she says, and offers her hand to him in a gesture that he knows from half a dozen other worlds how to return. "Good on ya, honey."

Fai waves at her back as she loses herself in the crowd. "What a nice woman," he says, mostly to Mokona, who surfaces to agree while Syaoran just looks a little uncomfortable at the turn and Kurogane huffs.

There's no telling where the crowd starts or ends, the milling is largely idle, but they choose a direction and strike out, with Kurogane's better vantage point to guide them. They cross intersections of numbers and names, heading toward the vague goal of room to walk more than single file.

There is glitz and shine here to strike at memories of Piffle, but only glancingly. Piffle had been bright and new, manufactured to be replaced as soon as the paint lost its luster. Daily life was elevated, detached. Here the brightness is grounded in concrete. For all that the lights cascade overhead, for all that the people sparkle, the streets are littered with refuse and the few alleys they manage to make use of reek.

Kurogane senses some shift in the crowd a moment before anyone else, hustles them with one long arm against a building. As they watch from the relative safety, everyone ramps up and then slowly grows more quiet, until a collective voice breaks through the cacophony:

"Twenty-six! Twenty-five!"

There is a hint of anticipation in the air now, palpable from all sides, but no accompanying whiff of threat, just an approaching thrill as more people join in the chanting.

It's Syaoran who notices the screen, small at the other end of the street, to which the crowd is orienting itself. He squints but Fai can make it out well enough.

"It's a mirror ball," he says, as Mokona bounces to see for herself.

She hefts her small weight completely out of Fai's hood finally to lean into the curve of his neck, little paws so careful in his hair. "I don't feel anything," she says.

"Eleven!" the crowd yells. "Ten! Nine!"

Everyone but their small group has joined in now, their eyes rapt on the screen where digital numbers lead them down to one.

The shout goes up, almost deafeningly loud: "Happy new year!"

Fireworks go off in the distance, dim sparks of color in the already light-washed bright sky, barely visible between the jut of buildings. No one seems to be paying them particular mind anyway, though. Most of the crowd has turned their happiness on each other, kissing friends and lovers. This too runs the gambit, from chaste to open-mouthed.

Fai slants a smile up at Kurogane, non-plussed at the sudden outbreak of laughing affection. "What a shame," he says. "I don't think you'll be able to find that nice lady again."

Kurogane drops his fist onto Fai's head, the softest hit he's ever taken. "Idiot."

Mokona leaps from Fai's shoulder to launch herself at Syaoran, voice sing-song as she teases for a kiss of her own.

"Come on," says Kurogane. "Let's go before everyone else does."

Fai snags his elbow even as he's turning to forge the way, halts him just long enough to swing in and press a kiss against his cheek.

Kurogane glares. Fai beams.

"It wouldn't do to disregard the traditions of this world," he says.

Kurogane grabs a fistful of coat to drag him forcefully away, as if Fai would do anything but follow.

In the grand scheme of things, time doesn't mean all that much to them anymore. It has been slippery and unsure in more than one world, and their own compliance in space-time is suspect. But there is a certain comfort in being pinned for a moment to a fixed point on a calendar, however unlike their own it may function.


End file.
